


Help the monster on two feet

by Melanie_D_Peony



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Gentleness, Getting to Know Each Other, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury, Jon's POV, M/M, Martin's POV, Medication, Missing Scene, Painkillers, Paranoia, Partial Nudity, Pining, Pining Martin Blackwood, Season/Series 02, Set after MAG47, Stabbing, Swearing, Trust Issues, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23851396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_D_Peony/pseuds/Melanie_D_Peony
Summary: When he finds Jon bleeding from a stab wound, collapsed in the Archives, Martin decides to do everything in his power to make him better.Everything shouldn't mean lying about being Jon's husband, of course, but...Well, it's a bit too late for that now, isn't it?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 111
Kudos: 643





	1. One of us was lying; Both of us half-damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did Jon manage to survive when the Distortion stabbed him in the Archives?

Jon's head is pounding. There's too much happening at once. Helen Richardson has just been swallowed whole by an entity, a personified nightmare that stepped right out of her statement, like a nightmarish vision of misplaced dimensions - there was something so subtly  _ wrong _ about the creature that called himself Michael, even if you disregard the messed up hands. You could tell that something came loose inside the man, but what was even more upsetting, that you could tell for certain that it  _ was _ a man at some point.

And… and Helen was gone. She sat across the Archivist but a moment ago, warm, alive, having fought her way out of some hellscape created by Michael. And then she took the wrong door, one wrong step in this fever dream of a waltz called life and she was lost again, a pawn fallen from the board altogether. Jon starts from behind his desk and after her, but pain jolts through him like a current and suddenly he is hyper aware of his stab wound, the blood gushing from between his fingers where they lie, draped across his abdomen. There's too much and there's panic inside his throat, a suffocating, hairy feel like a creature of too many extremities. But his mind is too preoccupied with Michael's words, his talk of a  _ struggle _ and staying  _ neutral _ and the horrible image of some kind of warfare is hard to push down and…

_ Prioritise, Sims _ , he commands himself, taking a deep breath, pain inflaming inside him with redoubled flare. There's no point trying to go after Helen, however hard it is to accept that. He has no means of following Michael into his lair of warped physics, no weird map or magic compass. He can only hope that Helen Richardson can pull off the miracle once more and escape. He doubts, but he can hope. 

Similarly, trying to untangle Michael's chaotic words, alone and bleeding, would be inefficient, to say the least. Downright idiotic, more like. He has a team of people and an archive full of obscure clues. Given time, he can unravel this mystery.

But not if he bleeds out here. He still conscious and standing, which he takes for a good sign, so he starts for the kitchen with exaggerated care. He feels slightly woozy, a nagging little voice in the back of his mind insisting that he is not taking the best course of action, but he can't justify why. The first aid box is in there, so naturally, he should head there too. He makes it through an expanse of time that stretches like an ocean of molasses, only trailing a mercifully small amount of blood on his way. He is staggering a bit by the time he reaches the shelf where the box sits and he feels too scared to let go of his cut, so he tries to navigate the package with one hand. He drops it, of course. The crescendo of the way the box lands, with its content rolling around with the fluid quality of mercury, is deafening in the silence of the Archives, where usually the halogen bulbs are the loudest of things. Jon holds his breath and counts to ten. When no one turns up, he focuses on bending for the gauze with the smallest amount of agony possible. Clutching the worktop with one hand, he begins his slow descent, lowering himself with painstaking care. He is not even halfway through when he hears the footsteps. Bollocks.

'Who's there?' Martin asks, popping up around the corner, catching Jon in the undignified position of half doubling over the floor, unmoving like a wax cast.

'Jon, are you okay?' He asks, furrowing, uncomprehending as Jon swallows back a tortured cry. 

'Yes.' He forces out from between his grinded teeth.  _ Remember, you can't trust him,  _ it pounds in his head,  _ you can't trust anyone!  _

'Can I… help you with anything?' Martin wagers and the tantalizing concern in his voice makes Jon, still bending, still motionless, finally snap.

'I'm fine, Martin.' His assistant shudders, like he's been whipped, but predictably, he refuses to retreat. It's something Jon could never wrap his head around, this stubborn loyalty in Martin. He'd never been nice to his assistant, but the more he tries to distance, the more the man seems to dig his heel in, determined to stay. 

'Jon…' Martin moves an inch closer now, as if to remind him of this dedication and Jon closes his eyes in the childish hope of that all this might just go away, if he stops staring. 

With his heart seemingly pounding in his throat, fearful for his life, he just desperately wants to give in. He needs this to be mere good natured interest, he just needs one  _ bleeding _ moment to breathe. He wants to stop running, looking behind himself, expecting something to chase him. Things need to stop chasing him for just a brief minute. But he'd always been most suspicious of Martin. What did he ever do that would make someone like Martin wanting to stay? 

He finally sinks to the floor with a growl, peering back again at his assistants. His more tangible line of thoughts are escaping him to the rhythm of his blood pumping out. His consciousness is gradually slipping away, things are becoming hard to grasp. He's watching the way Martin crosses the room, throwing himself on the floor by him, prying on his hand, finally having spotted the blood. It seems somehow distant, like he is looking through a telescope held the wrong way round. He is staring at an eyeful of Martin's scalp, appreciative of the colouring. Georgie, he smiles despite everything, has a pretty similar complexion. All those shades of browns to burgundy had always been his penchant.  _ Fearless Georgie Barker _ , his unruly thoughts circle back on themselves,  _ and yet I managed to scare her away… _

He is distantly aware that Martin is calling an ambulance but more preoccupied with the proximity of the man. With testing the reality of someone who chose to stay despite the hours,the worms, the terrors and a bosses hell bent on robbing him of whatever little privacy he has left. He finally gives in to the urge and he smears a bit of blood where he leaves his fingerprints on Martin's jaw. It's like a warcry against his peaceful skin. 

'But you are not going anywhere, are you?' He asks Martin, more contemplative than anything, but there's hurt and panic in the man's eye as he catches Jon's. Moving away the speaker from his mouth for a minute, he clutches Jon's bloody fingers more against his face.

'Of course not, Jon, I'm right here.' 

He returns his attention to the paramedic's instructions while Jon lets his hand fall back in his lap. His head is backed against the cupboard behind him. The last time he was this close to Martin was a life and death situation too.  _ That can't be a coincidence _ , a paranoid little voice pipes up in his head. But if Martin is after killing him, he is doing a piss poor job, pressing the triangular bandage in his wound to stop the bleeding, whispering little nonsenses to calm Jon and himself. When he nearly nods off with blood loss, Martin pats his cheek gently until he resurfaces.

'Tell me what happened, Jon.' He demands to keep him talking, to keep him conscious. 

Jon tries to decide whether he wants to tell the truth, whether he has the strength to even begin to explain something like Michael. Whether he is ready to give up his precious paranoia, this last bit of control he still yields when he is splayed on the floor, wounded, bleeding, vulnerable already as he is.

'The knife…' he splutters eventually. 'I-I just wanted to... make a sandwich...' 

The disappointed line of Martin's mouth almost makes him change his mind.

'Please come up with a better lie by the time the ambulance gets here.'

That happens a few small eternities later Jon spends trying to breath through the pain. The sight of the paramedic's yellow-green looks so surreal within the subtle beiges of the Archive's that Jon's unsure for a moment if he is merely hallucinating them. They fill the space with a flutter of elegantly efficient activity and a shower of questions that tattoos against his eardrum, muted and senseless. Martin is forced to answer them as he almost drifts off again and before he knows it, he is on a stretcher, being wheeled out, further away from Martin. His assisstant just stands there, collapsed on himself with helpless gravity. But then the flurry of action from the paramedics is drawing his attention away. There are hands all over him, doing a million thing at once and the choke of panic slowly returns. He is unable to shake the feeling that their fingers are somehow  _ too long _ .

He tries to escape, finding their clutches no longer welcome. He should have known that this was but another trap, he thinks desperately, trashing on the stretcher, pushing the paramedics away and there's angry shouting above his head he's unable to decipher as he tries to roll away. The only thing he can finally make out is that they are planning to sedate him.

'Wait, stop.' Martin's small voice is like something cut from crystal, clear above the cacophony of noises and the high pitched ringing that pushes against his eardrum with increasing amplitudo. 'Jon, Jon I'm here.' 

That brings things back to focus. He can suddenly tell that neither paramedics have long blond curls or strangely vacant voices that echo in on themselves like a church bells chimed. He collapses back on the stretcher, fumbling blindly until he finds Martin's hand. It's not a gentle touch, he is vaguely aware that he is holding on like the broad, flat palm is his last lifeline, that he is crushing the delicate joints and bones in a death grip. But he feels like he can finally breathe again, so he doesn't want to let go. 

'Please can I… Can I come with?' Above him Martin pleads and the paramedics exchange a look. They clearly don't want to deal with Jon's panic if it can be avoided, but something is holding them back.

'Our policy is that only family is allowed to travel in the ambulance… But you can meet us at the hospital…' The young woman above Jon begins to explain, but Martin interrupts.

'I am family.' He insists, a painful lie. They could not look more different if they'd been taken from a comedy skit, but Martin presses on. 'I'm his husband.' 

Jon closes his eyes, convinced in his swimming head that the blatant untruthfulness of the statement will be as painfully obvious to the paramedics as it is to him. But the other guy, who he thinks had introduced himself as Abed, is sighing. 

'Yeah, whatever, just let's get on with it.' 

It's awkward, the way Martin is forced to hold on, but he makes sure to stay nevertheless, navigating narrow halls with harried, skipping steps. Jon wants to thank him, but he knows he shouldn't. This shouldn't be happening in the first place. He shouldn't be relying Martin, of all people, who lies with practiced ease and has a smile so dazzlingly electrifying that it could distract you from your worst suspicions. Shy, secretive Martin who is so attuned to Jon in every way that he simply  _ has _ to have an ulterior motive. But the things is…

The thing is that when he is in the focus of Martin's eyes, he actually feels  _ seen _ . 

There's no better way to put it. At least not in a state of severe blood loss. So he holds on to Martin's hand like his life depends on it and returns his stare until he finally, mercifully passes out in the ambulance.


	2. You came up from anesthesia; Like a diver out of air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin doesn't know why he'd thought that his lie of being Jon's husband won't come biting him in the buttocks eventually.  
> But he was wrong in retrospect.

Staring down at his lukewarm tea, Martin waits. He is supposed to drink up, but even bringing the cup to his mouth feels beyond his capabilities now. At first it was a comfort to have the styrofoam in his hand, warm against his skin, _almost as Jon's feverish, dry palm_. But then the heat escaped, entropy be damned, and now he can't bring himself to down the uninviting, liquid brown sludge.

'Mr Blackwood?' He hears above his head and he forces himself to stare up at a tired looking nurse. He nods in confirmation.

'Your husband's operation went well.' 

As a testimony to how much he's fallen apart, Martin is unable to comprehend for a minute, before the whole mortifying ordeal comes crashing down at him again. 

'Oh, that's wonderful news.' He successfully stammers out.

'He'll be waking up from anesthesia. The painkillers he's about to get are likely to knock him out again, so if you wanted to see him, now is the time.' 

There's a hopeful fluttering of his foolish heart, underlined with a sense of dread. He know he has no right to impede on Jon's privacy like that. He is a caged man - the last time he'd been asked something personal he spent twenty agonising minutes talking about emulsifiers in deflection. To sneak up on him at his most vulnerable is not the least bit acceptable.

But there was so much blood and Jon was so weak, so scared, so confused. Looked like he was literally knocking on death's door, Martin thought at the time. The rapid action of the paramedic staff should have reassured him, but all he perceived was a panicked battle for a life quickly slipping away. He needs just the tiniest bit of proof that this is not a misunderstanding or a cruel lie, that somewhere in the belly of the intensive care unit his boss, his friend, _his Jon_ is alive and breathing and as well as he can be, given the circumstances. One peek can't hurt, Martin decides. He deserves as much. 

So he follows the nurse in a room that is soothingly secluded and private. There is one more bed besides Jon's, but it's empty. And then he catches a glimpse of Jon. He looks flat and wrung and vulnerable in the abundance of sterile, white bedding. And somehow painfully small. It's easy to forget about the fragile, asketic spareness of his boss due to his presence. There's something about Jon's commanding mien that makes him feel larger, stronger and more self assured than the people around him, a quiet dissatisfaction that easily dwarfs anyone else present. But asleep, he is but a sack of brittle bones and scars that make you ache and itch in sympathy. Not a flattering look, to be honest, not the kind that has the right to twist on Martin's heart with the full, trampling force of a well developed crush. But the matter of the fact is that it's apparently the tousled hair and the slightest bit of drool that does it for Martin. 

He is so lost in contemplating Jon, that he doesn't realise how the nurse got busy trying to rouse the man, until he hears her talk to him.

'Mr Sims.' She calls out and Jon doesn't look up. Instead he scrunches his closed lids and mutters.

'I better get going.' Martin hurries to say, but the woman makes a dismissive gesture.

'Don't be silly, it's fine. He'll be glad to see you.' She insists.

'I doubt.' Martin whispers to no one in particular as Jon finally comes to.

'Ouch.' He says and the kindly nurse smiles a little. 

'It's time to wake up, Mr Sims.' she encourages and Jon finally opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling, bewildered. 

'I think I need medicine.' He mutters with sleep heavy syllables, in a way that Martin had never heard him speak before and he is positive that his heart is about to burst. 

'You are about to get some. But until then, look who came to see you.' 

Jon sluggishly follows the nurses gaze. 

'Martin?' He mumbles with a confused expression and just when Martin begins to think that they might get away with it, the nurse speaks again.

'It's your husband, Mr Sims.' She helpfully supplies.

 _Bugger_ , Martin thinks, because Jon schools his face in a scolding expression. 

'That's got to be a mistake.' He says and points a shaky finger at his assistant. 'I'd remember if I married this man.' 

Martin briefly wonders what repercussions are going to be there for lying about this. What's the worse they can do, other than throwing him out? Make him pay for the ride in the ambulance? 

But the nurse simply sends Martin an encouraging grimace

'This happens all the time, dear. He is still under the influence of some pretty heavy sedatives.'

When she turns to Jon her voice feels a tad overloud, maybe to coerce him from whatever hazy state he's in.

'Come now, Mr Sims.'

'No.' Jon shakes his head, than winces, but presses on. 'No, you don't understand.'

It's no surprise that Jon is desperate to correct the woman. He'd rather die than miss an opportunity to be a wiseacre. No pharmaceuticals could change that trait of him.

The way he continues, voice full of pleading, is a bit of shocker, though.

'Martin knows better than to do that, he's got to, you see. He's sensible, too sensible to tie himself further to the Institute.' 

He turns to Martin next, confused, if a bit angry and forlorn. 

'Really, Martin, it's just common sense. You'll realise one day that you don't want all these monstrosities to keep finding their way to your front door. That you don't want worms, your bones stolen, that you don't want to keep looking behind your back and be scared of dark alleyways.' 

Jon pauses a little, stares ahead of himself, a bit cross-eyed, like he's trying to squint at his own trail of thoughts.

'Actually, you might want to keep up that last one.' He adds, getting visibly more flustered. Inwardly, Martin is grateful for the anaesthetics, because they make Jon's talk of stolen bones sound like the simple, incoherent rambles of someone drugged to the nines. Though he suspects that NHS nurses probably come across just as many victims of the supernatural during a night shift as they do in a week. 

'My point is.' Jon tries to gather himself, conducting a crescendo with his long, elegant hand only he's able to perceive. 

Then he stops, clearly having forgotten what his point was. But he is still arguably agitated, so Martin makes an attempt to excuse himself again.

'Ok, Jon, it's okay. Please, I don't want you to overstrain yourself, so I guess I'd better get…' 

'God, I wish you'd quit.' Jo blurts suddenly and he tears his gaze away from Martin and presses the heel of his hands to his eyes. 

Now there is no sense in feeling betrayed, Martin reminds himself. Jon is sick, drugged and tired; no matter how coherent he might sound, the meds are accountable for his current words, not him.

But it's not really helping the sensation of his heart being carved brutally out and plopped to the floor, waiting to be broken under Jon's heels. Because it's one thing to have an unreciprocated crush. But being unwanted? Well, that's another matter altogether. 

'I wish you'd all quit.' Jon continues before he has time to process the grief. 'And just… you know.' 

He makes a vague, fluttery gesture.

'Live happily ever after, or something.' 

With that Jon collapses back a bit, on himself, on his pillows. He looks up at Martin with a deep, welling sadness in his expression.

'God knows, you deserve it.' He says, blinking slowly, owlishly before proceeding to nod off a little bit again.

That gives time for Martin to deal with the strange, prickling sensation behind his eyes. 

'Oh, Jon…' He whispers to himself, wiping at his lashes surreptitiously while the nurse is busy puttering about, adjusting machines and reading measurements.

'Now, now, Mr Sims.' She says to Jon, her voice too harsh once more in the reverent silence, startling him into wakefulness again.

Jon seeks Martin out, frowning with persistent dissatisfaction.

'Are we really married?' He demands and Martin nods because the nurse is watching and because he can't speak through the bitter bile that is gathering in his mouth. His tongue is tied by the weight of his own lie.

It's visible, the way Jon's cogs turn, processing the new tidbit. There's a shifting range of emotions playing on his features, too quick for Martin to follow, until his complexion settles on something fatalistic. Finally, he offers up his open wrist towards Martin.

'Come here.' He gently commands and Martin obeys him in an almost trance-like, spellbound state. He lays his meaty palm on Jon's and Jon laces their fingers together like he is testing if two puzzle pieces make a good fit together. 

There is something like concern suddenly clamouring over his face. 

'Have I... ' he slowly enunciates with an evident lack of surety. 'Have I been good to you?' 

The genuine worry in his voice makes Martin's throat constraint. He is beyond forming comprehensive answers, so he just nods again. The response makes a relieved smile bloom on Jon's face.

'Glad. Because all I remember is being a complete, proper arse.' 

'You were.' Martin laughs, if a little wetly. 'At times.' 

'Guess I'm lucky that you forgave me.' Jon looks up at him at that, his tentative smile growing a bit wider, his thumb brushing across Martin's wrist, gently. 'Pretty fortunate, apparently.' He repeats.

Thankfully, another staff member enters before Martin has a chance to properly break down.

'Time for your meds, Mr Sims.' Claps the first nurse enthusiastically and Martin grabs the opportunity to tear himself from Jon's clutches. But only after giving his hand an indulgent little farewell squeeze. 

He mutters something about coming back soon and leaves the room in a style that best can be described as a frantic run.


	3. Cause they could sew your hands together; But they can't make you pray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the road to recovery promises to be a rocky affair too.

The mere thought of going back to Jon's place makes his head swim and his heart pound against the cage of his ribs like a frightened animal. But his boss texted him specifically, asking him to bring some clean garments. Apparently the trauma team cut all his clothes off of him. 

He has something of a panic attack on the way there, a fit of sweaty palms and mild hyperventilation. What happened in the hospital has not helped his raging inferno of a crush the least. Now he has the memory of Jon, drugged to the point of being sweet, juxtaposed on every single one of their interactions. So the simple, perfunctory gesture of asking for some clean stuff feels filled with meaning.

 _It's not, Martin_. He reminds himself, sternly. What Jon said under the influence of some pretty potent meds shouldn't only be discounted, it also should be promptly forgotten for the sake of propriety. 

But of course he replays it instead, in his head, over and over again. Him thumbing Martin's wrist. The smile. The " _pretty fortunate, apparently_ ". 

Because Martin is a masochist now, or so it seems. 

It takes him the entire journey to scold himself into a functioning human being again. By the time he opens the door to the small flat, he is almost able to laugh at his own intrigue. Not enough to not to nose around, of course. He is pretty sure that Jon inherited the bland landscapes on the walls from the previous tenants. But the bookshelf is carefully curated, if a bit eclectic. Especially the non-academic material. There's a decent amount of pulp Martin had not expected. In his ignorance, he assumed that Jon would never lower himself below the standard of the _Iliad_. 

Luckily, there's a time constraint so he can't do a full investigation. Instead he marches to the bedroom, barely looking at anything and opens the dresser Jon described. He is okay for a while, throwing clothes from Jon's drawers in his sport bag. Up until he finds it.

The cobalt blue hoodie on the top shelf is one of Martin's. He still remembers the night, when he stayed till late in the Archives, though he could not recount the reason why. What is certain, however, that he decided to leave the jacket behind after he spotted the lights still glowing behind the door of Jon's office. He stepped in only to kill the ceiling lamp, jumping nearly out if his skin when he spotted the shape at the desk. 

It was only Jon, slumped over his paperwork, head nested in the crook of his arm, snoring slightly. It looked like the most uncomfortable sleeping position and he could only imagine how exhausted Jon must have been in order to manage to fall asleep like that. The sight made him want to do something. Vulnerability always had this effect on him, his protectiveness surging like an elemental, untamed force. The best thing would have been waking Jon, bullying him into going home to get some much needed rest that a pillow of old statements couldn't possibly provide. But it felt almost cruel all the same, disturbing the peaceful scene. Finally, he settled on unzipping his hoodie, draping it gently over Jon's shoulder. He wore it because the humid, temperature controlled environment of the Archives always gave him the chills and he could only imagine what would it feel like for a man of much less padding, like Jon. 

When he nipped in Jon's office the next day to get it, the jumper was nowhere to be seen. He decided the cleaners must have deposited it in the lost and found and never bothered looking again. He had no idea… he couldn't conceive that Jon would have wanted to keep it...

 _It's nothing_ , he forcefully thinks and accompanies it with a mental kick in the shin. Jon probably had no idea whose hoodie it was, so he just kept in his drawers in lieu of a better course of action. 

But a treacherous little part of himself makes his hand move the hoodie inside the sport bag instead of choosing one of Jon's own jumpers. He inwardly rattles off some feeble justifications of his action, something about lose garments, but if he's being honest, it has more to do with the way Jon said " _you deserve it_ " than with any practicalities. It's shameless self indulgence, that's what it is. 

It burns a hole in the bag, in Martin's mind, that blue jumper on his way to the hospital. But he manages to forget about it, when he walks up to Jon's room. 

This is the first time he's seeing Jon since the drug fueled incident. And he knows from his own escapade of his wisdom teeth being removed that Jon is unlikely to remember any of their earlier conversation. The fault, as usual, is not with Jonathan Sims' potential behaviour. But he braces himself and enters anyway. 

Jon sits on the end of his bed, pushing back far enough so his long legs don't touch the indifferent, cold ceramic of the floor tiles. He frowns before he looks up at Martin.

'Martin.' He sighs with his unique blend of surprised exasperation. Like he is constantly taken aback when people, especially Martin, are acting in a competent manner, instead of letting him down as he expects. It's safe to say that the sober Jon Sims is much harder to like, but Martin had been managing just fine despite the obstacles.

'Thanks for coming through.' Jon mumbles and his gratitude, as always, is excruciating to watch. 

'It's nothing, really.' Martin shrugs off the compliment. He much prefers when Jon takes his servitude for granted. This is just uncomfortable for all parties involved. He focuses on putting the clean clothes on Jon's bed instead. 

'I'm not so convinced. All the nurses have been congratulating me on account of my doting husband.' 

Martin's muscles stiffen with dread and he nearly drops the neat little ball of socks he's holding. But when he looks up at Jon all he sees is a self deprecating little smile. 

'Yeah, about that.' Martin sighs, the lack of confrontation somehow making him more defensive. 'I-I'm sorry, Jon, it was just… they weren't going to let me come with you and I was worried…' 

'No, it's… it's good.' Jon's usually certain voice falters, which clearly bothers him. He breathes through his nose in big, calming gulps before he continues. 'Well, not good, obviously. But okay.' 

Martin swallows around the hard knot in his esophagus and continues to unpack, mutely. Knowing not to push his luck. Jon, however, is not ready to drop the topic.

'It was. Nice. To have you. In the ambulance, I mean.' 

The appreciation is stale with effort, but Martin still values it. Precisely because of the many guards Jon has to let down in order to appear human. Heaven knows, he is an expert in how hard it can be to reach out sometimes. 

'Yeah. Well.' Still is all he can manage in return. Then he tries to stir the conversation to some more practical issues. 'Now, do you think you can manage to put these on or shall I call a nurse?' 

Jon shudders at the mere mention of nurses and nods with conviction.

'I can deal with it.' He hurries to assure Martin before he gets some ideas.

'I'll wait outside then. The Uber should be here in about…' Martin checks his watch. He'd told Jon that they will take a cab. He didn't want him to bustle the crowd on the Tube with fresh stitches. '...twenty minutes.' 

Jon hums in agreement, his focus is clearly on the task ahead of him already. So Martin steps quietly out to the corridor and is relieved to find that it's much easier to breath when alone. About five minutes pass in mute contemplation, when he hears Jon's feeble call.

'Martin.'

It's barely audible, which scares Martin a little bit. He throws the door open, only to find that all Jon has achieved in the past handful of minutes is to loop his feet through the legs of his tracksuit bottom. He is now staring at the material around his ankles, looking close to tears with pain and frustration. 

'Martin, can you…' He begins, but Martin forcefully interrupts to spare his dignity.

'Can I help a little bit?' 

Jon nods with a stiff upper lip. And Martin is good at this. He's had many, many hours of practice, helping his mother. He can make the whole affair impersonal in a nice way. He can be there without really being present, in the most unobtrusive manner. So he steps to Jon and bends to grab the abundance of material on the floor. He pulls the trousers up to his waist without as much as disturbing his hospital gown. But when he reaches to swap the paper thin robe for a T-shirt, he catches a glimpse of Jon's sour expression and he breaks one of his own fundamental rules. He seeks out Jon's eyes and nudges his head towards him.

'Come on now, hubby, let's get on with it.' 

Appreciating the sarcasm in Martin's voice, Jon chuckles dryly and the tension in the room becomes abruptly less palpable. 

'I guess I should congratulate to your nuptials.' Jon mumbles, not really looking anywhere as Martin eases off the sleeves of his gown. 

' _Our_ nuptials, remember?' Martin continues to joke and Jon shakes his head in disbelief. 

'I hope the wedding was a lovely affair.' 

'Very nice and intimate, I can assure you.' Martin is busy shaking out Jon's soft, black T-shirt. He is surprised to see the logo of _What the Ghost_ on it. He wouldn't have taken Jon, the ultimate skepticist, for a fan. But then, people accumulate all sort of merch over the years. 'Only our closest two hundred colleagues from the Magnus Institute.' 

Jon actually snorts a bit at that as Martin drapes the round neck of the tee over his head. ' _Martin_.' He chides, but he is grinning as well and somehow they are already over it. Jon is standing, fully dressed and Martin decides to take a step back, simply handing him the large, blue hoodie. 

Jon takes a look at it and his smile falters. There's a deep, pink tinge to his skin where the blood rushes to his face.

'I've been meaning to give this back to you for a while now.' He admits, worrying the material between his fingers and the fact that he knows whose jacket is it somehow makes Martin's insides feel heavy with an incomprehensible emotion.

'You keep it. Really, you're welcome to it.' Martin says as nonchalantly as he can. Which is to say that his voice jumps a pitch before he can cram it an octave lower to sound like himself again.

Jon shrugs on the jumper and Martin feels almost sick in the stomach as the heady sight of Jon in _his_ clothing hits him, full force. His boss is practically swimming in the hoodie and what's worse, he burrows his hand in the material with clear satisfaction. 

'Can you walk? Would you like to lean on me?' Martin forces through his gritted teeth, feigning normalcy, telling himself that this is all but fine. Despite knowing that he is as far from normal or fine as he's ever been. 

'I should walk alone, actually.' Jon unhappily admits. 'It's supposed to help the healing.' 

So Martin nods and they make their painstaking way to the front door of the hospital in mutual, but comfortable silence. Jon's flat is not far from the University College Hospital and Jon fills the drive with a long, rambling retelling of a case of a cursed saw that had actual human dentures for teeth and turned up mysteriously in Artefact Storage one day. He is either reminded of the story when they pass the Wellcome Collection or he info dumps on account of feeling awkward, as usual. Either way, Martin finds a cruel sort of amusement in watching their long suffering Uber driver's face ashen from the rear view mirror. But he tips generously when they pull up at Jon's. He is not that cruel, after all. 

He accompanies Jon to his flat, making sure that he settles well. He forces Jon to tell him whether he understands how to take care of his stitches and asks him about physio. Finally, when Jon grumbled through all the details, he has no more excuses to stay. 

'Well, I'd better get going.' He sighs, snatching up his sport bag and he feels a bit emptier for it. And as if reading his mind, Jon suddenly blurts.

'Wait, Martin. Can I offer you a tea? Or anything?' 

'No, it's okay. I really should leave.'

'Are you sure? Please, I… haven't had a chance to properly thank you.' Jon scratches his head, but he is a bit more purposeful in his appreciation, a bit more sincere under the outer layer of his misanthropy. A bit softer in his familiar environment.

'I'm good, Jon. But this reminds me - I took the liberty of leaving some vegan curry in your fridge. The one that you order sometimes. I'd rather if you didn't make a sandwich for a while, you know.' 

The sentence, like an outstretched right, like the handle of a hatchet, hangs between them. 

'I'm sorry about that, Martin.' Jon finally huffs, avoiding his assistant's eyes. 

'It's fine.' Martin says softly, only letting on the tiniest bit of his disappointment. Jon, on his part, still hasn't offered a better explanation. 'I just wanted you to know that you can talk to me, when you are ready.' 

And strangely enough, despite all they've been through together, Jon stares back at him as if from the other end of some terrible precipice.

'I really wish I could.' He says with a great, heaving sigh of earnest melancholy. 'You've been great, these past couple days, truly.' 

'It wasn't that much, really. But I need you to know that I just want to help.' 

Jon scoffs and laughs a little at the same time, voice full of frustration.

'And why would you want to do that?'

'Because, Jon.' Martin doesn't stop until he finally catches Jon's fluttering gaze. 'Because you would do the same for me.' 

'Would I?' Jon cocks a brow challengingly at him.

But Martin doesn't buy it, not anymore. Not after having watched Jon ramble, stuffed with pills, about how much he wants his team to leave the Archives that were gradually proving to be a maze of metaphysical, yet still very real threat. _I wish you would all quit,_ Jon said because underneath the crust of indifference he cares for his colleagues. It's a fact that took Martin's resolution of ending his stupid crush on his boss and obliterated it. Having seen the extent of Jon's actual concern, of how very human he is below the act of disaffected academic, Martin is now toeing the line of the abyss of properly falling for this bruised and abused shamble of a man. 

'Yes.' He says firmly and he wishes that he would have a formidable excuse to squeeze that narrow wrist again. 'I know you would.' 

Jon's expression melts into something that he can't handle, carved as open as he already is. So he turns steadily on his heels, before he offers it over his shoulder.

'Goodbye Jon. And please take care.'

  
  



End file.
